


A Thousand Years

by Nobodys_Handmaid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Germany is Holy Roman Empire, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nobodys_Handmaid/pseuds/Nobodys_Handmaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was clearing out my Drive and found this. I cleaned it up a little and finished it off, et voila.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Years

_ Heart beats fast.  
_ _ Colours and promises. _

Veneziano’s heart raced as he felt the intent stare of Holy Rome on his back. The blond boy had only just returned to Mr Austria’s house, and he was really starting to scare the young country. Had he done something wrong? Was he not doing something he should be doing? Had he lost something that belonged to Holy Rome? He squeaked and trembled. It felt like the flames of a thousand fires had been concentrated onto his back. In his moment of panic, he didn’t hear the footsteps sprinting away, as fast as they could go.

Veneziano missed the days when his greatest worry was what picture to draw next. Why had Nonno Rome not protected him from the big mean countries who had taken him away? He had promised to protect his grandson, so where was he? Why had he not kept his promise?

In his head, he knew that once a nation had disappeared, or dissolved, or died, or whatever it was that happened to their kind when they ceased to be, there was nothing that could be done. Ancient Greece, as she was now known; Carthage, after Nonno Rome had beaten the city-state; Troy, Nonno Rome’s ancestor; and Persian Empire. All gone. None had been seen, even when those few who were close to them had been in the greatest danger.

In his heart, it was harder to come to terms with, especially when Mr Austria crushed him with his boot. He  _ wanted _ his Nonno, who had, until he disappeared, protected him from all of the ugliness of the world outside his small city borders. But his also  _ didn’t _ want his Nonno, who had left him behind to survive on his own. No matter that it was not the empire’s fault, it still stung. Veneziano had been left behind to fend for himself, and now he had to follow Mr Austria’s orders when all he wanted was to paint and sing and draw.

And now the boy who had copied his Nonno’s name kept glaring at him from behind closed doors, and he didn’t get enough food, and none of it was good food, and they had taken his pasta away, and he had to clean and Mr Austria said he was a girl, and Holy Rome thought he was too. Miss Hungary knew he was a boy, but looked like she found Mr Austria’s mistake funny. It didn’t matter, though. Wearing his little green dress was better than getting the nice clothes he wore before he came to Mr Austria’s house dirty, and he looked so very cute wearing it!

His chores could be very tiring. He had never had to work before, but Miss Hungary was really nice and helpful, and she explained things to him. Mr Austria was kind, too, when he was playing his piano. He gave ITALY a little stool to sit on and the music was wonderful to listen to. Veneziano sometimes found himself mesmerised by how those slender fingers coaxed emotion made audible out of that instrument. It was angry, mournful, happy, content, peaceful, energetic, smooth, and a multitude of other emotions. Mr Austria was always happy to let Veneziano sit and listen, and soon the Nation stopped his chores every day at the same time, so he could sit and enjoy the notes pouring out from under Mr Austria’s skilled fingers. Veneziano hoped that Mr Austria would teach him to play his piano, although, looking at how he reacted when anyone – even the human servants – who tried to touch ‘her’ it was unlikely. Mr Austria was very protective of his precious instruments, and once the child had walked in on him crooning to and stroking his piano.

The small boy hastily and quietly fled before the adult could see him.

Veneziano slowly settled in to his new ‘home’ and became accustomed to his new list of chores, and swiftly located the best places to hide in order to get out of doing said chores. He often went out of his way to avoid the other physically young Nation that was staying with Mr Austria, but that did not always work. For a long time, the Holy Roman Empire had chased after Veneziano, trying to force him to become one, both standing beneath one flag. For a short while after first discovering Veneziano under Austria’s rule, Holy Rome did not seem to know what to do. It was almost as if he was hiding from the other child.

_ How to be brave, how can I love when I’m _

_ Afraid to fall? _

It took time, but Veneziano told himself that he needed to stop being scared of Holy Rome. Although he was not and had never been strong or powerful like the other Nations that he met at Mr Austria's house, he still had an inner core of the strongest steel.  He had held off the Ottoman Empire! 

Besides, Holy Rome had asked for painting lessons, so surely he couldn’t be that bad?

He showed his new ‘student’ how to set up an easel, how to mix colours and how to put your hands to search for and frame the perfect picture to draw. Just as they had finished, a rabbit began to eat the grass in front of them. For some reason, cute and fluffy animals seemed to be drawn to wherever Veneziano was, and vice-versa. The Italian began to sketch out the outline of his picture, watching Holy Rome out of the corner of his eye as he did the same.

“It looks like crap,” the blond boy pouted. Secretly, Veneziano agreed. It was good for a beginner, but far below his own standards. He wouldn’t let on; as a ‘teacher’, it was his job to encourage his ‘student’ to grow.

“Here, like this.” The small boy in a maid’s dress put his little hand over the blond’s pudgy one and helped him with the stroke technique. Holy Rome’s face lit up scarlet and he ran.

Why did he run? Holy Rome had been chasing Veneziano for several centuries, now. Why would he run away now that he was finally close to him, finally able to see, speak to, touch, hold the other Nation without having to worry about being found trespassing and the consequences that could follow? It made no sense.

_ But watching you stand alone, _

Holy Rome did not surround himself with others. Mr Austria always seemed to have someone with him, unless he was playing music. Miss Hungary was always talking to someone, or doing social activities, or chasing after Prussia and big brother France. His grandfather, the great Roman Empire, was always surrounded by admirers, by women, by advisors, by his favoured grandson. None of these Nations, all of them examples to Veneziano, were ever alone. They always had someone or something with them, to fill the empty spaces left behind by Nations and humans alike that they had grown close to and, as was the way of this cold, heartless world, lost. Their kind was, by necessity, social. A country could not survive without trade or allies in a rapidly expanding world. To be without support was to invite conflict.

But the Holy Roman Empire seemed to invite solitude, always one step removed from his interactions, be they with humans or other Nations.  But around Italy Veneziano, his carefully constructed emotional reserve fell to pieces. His face had a tendency to burn scarlet and he lost control of his precise words. Something about the other Nation made him turn into a stammering incoherent mess.

Despite being a Nation, Veneziano was all but invisible around the house. His clothes marked him as ‘inferior’ to visitors, especially those who did not know of the existence of their kind. Servants were overlooked and, small as ITALY was, there was not much to look at anyway.

He saw and heard things that were let out by unguarded lips; what could a young serving girl do with the information? Nothing. This was why, from very early on, he knew of the unrest and coming war. Things were becoming turbulent in the Austrian empire, and people began to lash out at the political leaders, including some people  in on the secret through Austria’s own design or pure accident, taking their frustration out on the personification himself.

.::..::..::..::..::.

He stood alone, one Nation among hundreds of thousands of humans marching off to war. He was one of them, but separate, above their worries and aches and pains and aging and death, yet able to, if he focused, feel every single citizen’s thoughts, memories and emotions. Veneziano was crossing the courtyard with his broom when he saw the soldiers leaving for battle.

“Holy Rome!” The cry was involuntary, pushing itself past his lips without the small maid’s consent. The seemingly endless column of soldiers did not pause, only one figure turning from where he stood, a painting hidden behind his back that he would not –  _ could not _ \- allow Veneziano to see.

_ All of my doubt  
_ _ Suddenly goes away, somehow. _

_ “I have to go away now.” _

Too few words passed between them before the two men escorted him away.

“Wait! Don’t leave me! Please don’t go!”

He would forget; the Italian was sure of it. Some other person would turn the powerful Nation’s head, and why not? Italy Veneziano was not powerful, or strong. He was high-maintenance and not particularly good at following orders. He was not special, not memorable. He had to do something to keep himself in Holy Rome’s thoughts.

“Here! Take this, to remember me.” He held out his broom to the boy, the whole world narrowing to just those few inches between him and Holy Rome. He took it, their hands not quite touching, that half-inch between them charged with energy, with words unsaid, memories that had passed, should have passed, would never pass and may yet pass between them. The confusion of the two citizens escorting Holy Rome was unnoticed, and the only thing that mattered was each other. The whole world, populated only by two.

Then, in reciprocation, the kiss. It was not much; just a small brushing of lips between innocents, taking simultaneously forever and no time at all. He held Veneziano’s right hand, and the broom was clasped awkwardly under his right arm. As they pulled away, they both could see the tears beading at the corners of their eyes.

They parted with tearful smiles, Holy Rome’s final words, his last promise, echoing in Veneziano’s ears.

.::.::.::..::..::.

The war was long and brutal. Fourteen years of fighting with France, small victories and losses on both sides. Italy Veneziano waited, always patient. Fourteen years was nothing. A heartbeat. A breath. A blink.

 

Insignificant to one as old as him.

So why did it hurt?

Every meal with an empty place, every time he picked up his paint box, every time he used his broom, there was a hole inside him. An emptiness caused by the absence of the boy. The highlights of those years were when the letters would arrive. He treasured them, carefully reading every character carefully inscribed on the paper. He absorbed each word, traced his fingers lightly over the odd teardrop. After he had read them, each letter was carefully flattened and placed in a box. When Holy Rome returned, he would have them bound into a book. His replies left out nothing in his life, and each ended with a meticulously written  _ I love you _ .

Being handed over to France like a trinket that lacked any real value, with no comfort that came from seeing the familiar faces or the places he had come to treasure. At Big Brother France’s house, he no longer had to wear a dress, and he had more freedom and no housework. Big Brother France seemed to have instructed his chefs to give him free rein in the kitchens, and delighted in seeing his artwork, even though he  _ was _ very reluctant to return any paintings.

 

The treaty, and being returned to Mr Austria. Passed around again, like a length of cloth in the market. A piece of merchandise to be bought and sold for a profit.

Into his window drifted the sound of a single horse entering the courtyard. He ran to look out and saw one of the couriers that had brought Holy Rome’s letters to him. In his rush to get down, to get to the expected letter as quickly as he could, he failed to take in the battered state of the man. His clothes were torn and he had more bandages than would be expected. The horse was poorly taken care of and looked exhausted.

Veneziano reached the courtyard at about the same time as Mr Austria. At the same time as the courier gave his message.

_ “The Holy Roman Empire is dead.” _

Those words blew a hole in his world.  Holy Rome was a strong empire! He would not simply disappear! Not like this! He had promised to return, and he would! He would  _ keep _ his promise, no matter what!

Veneziano stopped talking. He would sit in Holy Rome’s room, hugging a hat that had been left behind. He rarely ventured outside, and his famed appetite dropped away. The young Nation’s paint box gathered dust where it sat on the shelf.

 

Austria found Italy there, in  _ his _ old bedroom, more than once, having cried herself to sleep. He never said anything in the mornings at the breakfast table despite having been the one to carry the young girl to her own room, and tucking her in to her bed. He would pretend that nothing had happened the next morning at breakfast. The true cruelty of the world had previously not made itself known to her and he regretted deeply that it was under his care that the girl had to experience it. In a letter, France had detailed exactly what he had done to the now dead boy that had once been the representation of the strongest power in Christendom. 

 

There was nothing left of that letter, not even ash. They had all cared about the boy, in one way or another but Italy had, he thought, become the closest. He could not allow even the smallest shred of that so precious, so rare, so  _ illogically optimisti _ c innocence that the girl had about the world be destroyed. Letting her see so much as a word of that self-congratulatory, malicious letter would be devastating.

 

Besides, it was the way of the world; the weak are destroyed and trampled on by the strong. Survival of those fittest to live on and those not fated to live? Perhaps it was better for them to be left behind.

 

The spheres spin, regardless of whether those contained within the endlessly turning crystal follow the motion or fall by the wayside.

 

.::..::..::..::..::.

Veneziano was grateful for that core of steel. With time, and much of it, he could go back to smiling and enjoying life. He reminded himself that he had to live, laugh and love for two people; himself and Holy Rome. Humans, so much more fragile and damageable than themselves, could do it, could live on past the inevitable death of their loved ones, so why not a Nation? Every day, he would think of Holy Rome. He would paint pictures, always improving his skill. He would cook, when he could get into the kitchen. He would remember the look on the blond’s face when he tasted Veneziano’s beloved pasta for the first and, sadly, last time. 

 

_ One step closer. _

Time passed. He never forgot Holy Rome. It simply was not possible; the nation had been permanently engraved on his heart, never to fade. His words were carved in a font that would never wear away.

_ I have loved you since the nine hundreds _ .

Sometimes, after a dream, he would wake up convinced that he was still at Austria’s house with Hungary and  _ him _ . The Holy Roman Empire. That was why he hated to sleep alone. These too-real dreams, half-forgotten memories embroidered and embellished by nostalgia and regret, were weaker and reality less disappointing when he had a close friend or his brother next to him on waking. An instant reminder that yes, he was loved and he was wanted. He liked sleeping next to Germany best, though, even though that first meeting with him had been so painful.

He looked as he had imagined Holy Rome would appear if he had been able to grow up. Although his hair was slicked back and he had none of the softness that Holy Rome had possessed, Veneziano had since seen him with his hair loose and free. He looked…  _ nicer _ those times. Less stern and not as angry. And he could be soft and gentle. It just took time (and much effort from him, more than Germany would believe he could show!) and he would slowly be more comfortable and relaxed. And he almost always let the Italian get away with things that he would have punished anyone else for, even before they were lovers. He was a nice guy, really, even if it didn’t always look like it.

That inner steel helped, though. He could instantly clamp down on any pain and release it in controlled bursts when no-one was looking. Hide what hurts, don’t give anyone power over you. He might not have had the strongest armies, but who wanted war anyway? War was only a way of losing those you love, of killing the loved ones of those fighting against you. The true cost of war could not be measured in any way. Who could know what one man, carelessly slain on the field of battle, otherwise could have done with his life? How many sons and daughters were left unborn because the men that would have been their fathers had been killed? How many families were left with a gaping hole where the father should be?

Of course, it was dressed up and made glorious, to ‘die for your country’. He didn’t want anyone to die for him. On his side, or on the enemy’s. For this, they called him weak, useless, a coward. He put up an imaginary wall; their barbs bounced off, and could never hope to touch him. He smiled to show that he could not be hurt, not by words.

_ I have died every day waiting for you, _

He painted Holy Rome. Over and over again. He would not,  _ could  _ not, allow himself to forget even the most minute detail of his face. He hid the paintings from anyone who could see, anyone who could laugh at him, or throw around words like ‘obsession’. The rest of the Nations had forgotten the Holy Roman Empire, but not him. No-one could be truly dead until fully forgotten.

 

Each painting was slightly different. The posture, the lighting, the surroundings. Sometimes he was inside, sometimes in the forest, sometimes in a field. Once, in a river. If you looked carefully, you could see a small figure in a green dress and white apron in a few of them.  Not prominently placed, just tucked around a corner, or far away in the distance. There might be a push broom propped up against a wall, or a pail left carelessly in a corner. Little touches that hinted at another person nearby.

In one portrait, he had aged the subject a little. Putting in small touches of shadow, replacing the roundness of childhood with some of the gangly lengths of teen years, then changing his mind and adding to it the stronger and sharper lines of adulthood. The result scared the artist. It was too familiar. He could not allow himself this cruel hope. Holy Rome had  _ died _ , had been dead for over a millennium.

For the first time in all of his centuries of life, Italy Veneziano destroyed a painting, and he never tried to recreate it.

_ Darling, don’t be afraid,  
_ _ I have loved you for a thousand years. _

He never stopped loving the Empire, but he made himself move on. It was possible to love two at once, just in slightly different ways. The circumstances were different, now. He was an adult Nation of equal standing to the one he loved, an independent country in his own right, and much of the innocence of his childhood had left him.

War after war after war. The suffering and hardship of his people. Globalisation, and the so-called wonders of the modern age. New illnesses, new ways of dying. More efficient ways of killing, and of killing  _ more _ . Pollution, extinctions, habitat destruction, humanity destroying the earth and often making their Nations ill, all for profit. Having enough to feed every human on the planet, yet one in ten still starving.

Hard-won lazy mornings in bed. Making breakfast for Germany, and demanding a kiss in payment. Surprising him by dragging him out from work for a picnic. The clutter of two lives slowly overlapping, and having to deal with Prussia’s lewd comments in the ‘mornings after’. Veneziano encouraged him shamelessly without letting on what he was doing, just to see Germany’s blush. His reputation of innocent naivety was useful, but not entirely accurate.

He was  _ Italian _ , after all.

_ I’ll love you for a thousand more. _

Germany lay on the hard earth, back flat to the ground. His eyes were closed and his breathing shallow enough to be almost non existent. His skin, pale enough on a normal day, was an almost ashy white. The black sleeveless shirt he wore for exercise stood out in stark contrast.

If the blond had not been a Nation, Veneziano would have lost someone else he loved. As it was, he was unconscious, and had not moved for too long, even for their kind. Veneziano had not left him, had not moved from where he was crouched by his side.

There was no blood. It would have been more reassuring if there was. An external symptom of what was wrong, a place to look for signs of Germany getting better, of healing – or not.

“Germany! Wake up! Speak to me!”

He had implored the blond for what felt like  _ hours, days, weeks, months, years _ to show some sign of life, hoping against hope that those sky blue eyes would flicker open and he would shout at Veneziano for neglecting his training. His throat was sore, his voice hoarse and it soon gave out.

_ Not again not again not again not again not again not again not again not again not again _

He would never know what had happened to Holy Rome; who had landed the final blow, if there was one; what it was that had stopped him from healing and coming back, as his Nonno had done when he had ‘died’ in battles; whether he had been in pain as he left this world; what words were the final ones to pass his lips.

Who he had thought of as he died.

He now knelt over his old ally – friend – lover. He could see wet patches gleaming on his shoulders, like rain drops, but the sky was clear. Another drop fell, onto his shirt this time. He lifted his hands and they hovered, just above Germany's shoulders. For once, he was too scared to try to touch. Italy Veneziano, who was entirely without the concept of boundaries or of personal space, could not bring himself to lay a hand on the other Nation, in case he upset whatever delicate balance was keeping his lungs breathing, his heart beating, keeping him in this precarious state of not-dead.

He stayed there for what felt like days, until Prussia came to find them after night had fallen. Neither of them had their phones, and Germany’s brother was worried when they hadn’t picked up any of his calls. He knew their normal training route, had often accompanied them on their runs. The first sign of their ‘rescue’ was the drone of his motorbike’s engine. Veneziano moved to cover Germany’s body, driven by instinct to protect. His fear  _ of _ was shrunk, made insignificant by his fear  _ for _ . He twisted his head and shoulders around to see, still trying to shield Germany from whoever or whatever it was that was coming. Despite the fact that, now, a vulnerable Nation was more likely to receive help than an attack, memories ran long and instinct longer.

 

The headlights’ glare seared into his eyes.

 

.::..::..::..::.

 

Prussia killed the ignition, but left the headlights on. The battery could take it, and he needed to be able to see what was happening. West and Italy hadn’t returned, nor were they at the Italies’ house. The anxiety rose from the pit of his stomach, where it had been squashed down from the start of his too-long drive, and began to twist again. Veneziano’s eyes were reddened, but he was otherwise fine. West, however… he wasn’t moving. He was lying down, flat on his back, and he had not jumped up to criticise his awesome big brother for running the battery down on his bike,  _ again _ .

“Italy? What’s happened?” he kept his voice as low and soothing as he could. The redhead jumped at the familiar tones. Slowly, painfully slowly, he walked towards the two. He could see that the normally exuberant Nation was not himself. He had seen this before – men crouched over their nearest and dearest when injured, on hair triggers to hurt, to rip, to tear, to protect against a threat, perceived or real. He had to be wary. The Italian was so passionate, so free with his emotions, that he would not be unlike a rabid wolf should his trigger be tripped.

“Italy!” He put one cautious hand on his shoulder, slowly lowering himself into a crouch that matched the Nation in front of him. It was like a rubber band, stretched beyond its limit, had snapped inside the Italian.

A torrent of tearful words poured out and he clutched at the Prussian’s solid form. He all but threw himself into Prussia’s chest and, unable to do anything else, he wrapped his arms around the weeping man. He slowly calmed the Italian down, bit by tiny bit, until he had mostly stopped crying, the odd hiccough still wracking his torso despite his best efforts.

Together, eventually, they manoeuvred Germany’s prone form onto the motorbike’s seat. Prussia instructed Italy to drive it as steadily as he could while the physically stronger Nation walked alongside. Whenever it looked like the blond would fall off, he would quickly correct the slipping torso, or limp limb before Germany was hurt any more. It was slow progress made more difficult by the ruts and bumps in the ancient dirt track. At last, they returned to the German brothers’ home. Prussia pulled out the sofa bed in the lounge, and Veneziano ran for bedding. Lying there, draped in the plain sheets kept for guests, he looked diminished and he was far too pale. There was no indication of what had caused his current state of unconsciousness, not even a bruise marring the bloodless expanse of war-scarred skin.

He lay there for a week, the only movement being the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Their kind did not strictly need to eat or drink, but even so, his skin seemed to recede into his bones. Veneziano fussed over him nonstop, despite never seeing any change.

.::..::..::..::..::.

_ It _ happened one day while he was eating, perched on a stool near Germany’s head. There was just the briefest flicker – nothing much, but enough – of his eyes under closed lids. That quick motion soon opened up the floodgates of his movements – his breathing grew stronger, his limbs began to shift – until one morning Veneziano, who had fallen asleep over his patient’s torso, woke to the sight of a pair of the most piercing blue eyes meeting his own. He froze, trapped in that gaze until the blond’s lips began to move.

“ _ I…ta…ly… _ ” It was barely more than a breath, just a sigh shaped by trembling lips.

“Y-you’re awake! You’re alright!” Big, fat, happy tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes, and he failed to notice the unusual lilt to Germany’s voice.

“ _ Kept… my… promise. _ ”

“Prussia! Prussia! He’s awake! Come quickly!”

The ex-nation was dragged out of his bed by the Italian’s cries. Neither of them had been sleeping well, so it took very little to wake the two. His footsteps thundered towards them, down the stairs then into his living room, just as his bruder’s lids again slipped shut over his eyes.

It was a Monday, so Prussia planned to call in hung-over. Veneziano suggested that  _ he _ call Germany’s boss instead, as well as pressuring France and Spain to corroborate the story. Germany’s government did not strictly  _ need _ to know about the state their Nation was in, and no way was Prussia leaving his younger brother alone now that he was starting to wake up fully. They watched over him, leaving only when they had to. That evening, Veneziano had left the room, regretting having drunk a full jug of water in his anxiety, when the call pierced every barrier in the German brothers’ house.

“West! You’re awake! Italy! He’s awake! Get through here!”

“P-Prussia? Why is Italy at your home? Did Austria send him here?”

Veneziano barrelled through the doorway, a few forgotten soap suds dripping from his hands. “Why would Austria send me anywhere, Germany?”

The redhead’s question went unnoticed as the blond picked up on something else seemingly out of place. “And-a why are you not on the battlefields, preparing to fight France?”

_ Why would I be fighting France? _ Prussia asked himself before using his considerable bullshitting skills carefully honed through centuries of lying to assorted authority figures to make something plausible up on the spot. “My boss sent me home to get some rest.” Here, he allowed a smirk to spread its way across his face. “Well, he  _ said _ rest, but I think it could be something to do with – ”

“Prussia! You shouldn’t be telling him things like that! He needs rest, not your stories!” He then turned to the patient and asked whether he wanted anything, glaring at Prussia before he could make any crude remarks. In his relief, nothing could be put past the albino Nation. He turned back to his patient and it was like a switch had been flipped. Gone was the face making Prussia not-tremble in his awesome boots, and he fussed over the blond, emitting a string of words without once pausing for an answer. “Would you like some water? Prussia can get some water for you, if you’d like. Prussia, get a glass of water, would you?”

The ex-country complied and left the room in a  _ totally manly _ and awesome way, definitely not intimidated in the slightest by an Italian.

“Italy, you have grown. It has been too long since I last saw you.”

“What – what do you mean?”

“Ten years may not be much for one sharing our life span, but it is more than long enough for the lack of your presence to be a constant aching loss, stretching each passing hour into an eternity.”

“G-Germany? Are you okay? Does your head hurt?”

“Italy, you and I are the only ones in this room. I have yet to hear of anyone, country or man, named Germany, and I would prefer not to speak of international affairs when finally, I once again have the fortune to see you. You have been a constant in my thoughts since the day I left.”

 

Veneziano was silent. Prussia returned unnoticed from the kitchen, glass of water in hand. 

 

“If - if you’re not Germany, then who - who are you?”

 

“ _ Italy _ ,” His voice sounded almost as if he was being strangled and small tears were beginning to grow at the corners of his eyes. “Have you truly forgotten? It is me,  _ Holy Roman Empire _ .”

 

Veneziano froze. A glass dropped and shattered, water seeping out to pool on the floor.

 

He muttered something that neither of the Germanic Nations could quite make out.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“ _ LIAR! _ ” Tears began to flow freely down his cheeks and dripped down his chin onto his shirt. He stood, pushing himself away from what he thought was someone playing a cruel joke. His eyes had snapped open, wider than they had been in centuries, if not a millennium. Swirling in that vibrant gold was more pain and anger than any of them had thought happy-go-lucky, useless Veneziano could hide.  “How dare you.” His voice was flat, under rigid control and, before either of the two could do anything, he left.

 

Before either could stop him, he ran out of the house into the forest near the somewhat isolated house. He had  _ all this energy _ and  _ nothing to do with it _ , so he found a tree with low branches and lost himself in the grip and pull, in the roughness of the bark, in the shallow scrapes on his palms that healed before he could even register the sting.

 

This one wasn’t tall enough. It was too dark. No stars, no moon. He felt trapped, enclosed by the branches. He lowered himself down a few branches to find a bough close enough, then locked on. It was reckless; in his normal state, he would never have even considered it.

 

Nothing about this was normal.

 

The scrapes on his soft palms were deep, this time, and managed to bleed a few scarlet tears before closing themselves up. He wiped them, one at a time, on his jacket. Again, he pulled himself up and up and up. This one was taller than its fellows; he could see the sky now. It was clear, the dark velvet blanket with the pinprick stars shining through unhindered by clouds.

 

_ It shouldn’t be this calm, _ Veneziano told himself. Barely a breath of wind was stirring the leaves, too weak even to tug on the locks of his hair.   _ It shouldn’t be this calm. _

 

He sat in the v of a branch growing out of the main trunk and let his head drop back to rest on the solid surface of the trunk behind him. The ridges scratched his scalp, and he would probably leave a few hairs behind him.

 

Holy Rome had been the first person he had ever loved; heart, mind and soul. This was the first time he had heard his name since he had died, finally, permanently, at the hands of Big Brother France’s boss. He had seen, just for a moment, Austria burning something in France’s handwriting on  _ that day _ . His fingers, normally so sure and precise, had been trembling as he pushed the sheets closer to the heart of the fire with the poker.

 

He stayed in that tree for hours; the horizon was beginning to be tinted with rosy pinks and soft oranges when he finally started to descend from his perch. His will was resolved. He slowly lowered himself from branch to branch, occasionally locking his hands together and swinging himself around, loosely hugging the tree when the nearest branch was too far to his right or his left to reach easily. He was thankful for his slender build; if he did not have that almost girlish body, he would most likely be lying on the ground by now, waiting for his bones to knit themselves back together. 

 

He ignored the little voice in his head pointing out that Germany’s insistence on training may have had something to do with it too. Holy Rome was the first person he had ever loved. Anyone who claimed to be him was no friend. It was a cruel betrayal of Germany  to do this, especially after he had been so worried! 

 

Unforgivable.

 

He landed on the ground with a too-loud thud. He slowly lifted himself out of the shock-absorbing crouch and began to walk back in the direction of Germany’s country home. As it came into his sight after a fairly long walk, longer than he’d expected, he started to panic.

 

_ No, I can’t! I can’t face him - I can’t go back in there! _ He hesitated, took a couple of hasty steps back, and then hovered in place.  _ I need to get my stuff. I have to  _ leave.  _ What would Romano do? _ They were two halves of the same country; he should be able to tap into those  _ don’t fuck with me _ waves given off by his brother. A deep breath, and he entered the house as unobtrusively as he could. He got up to the room he used whenever he visited Germany, and began to pack his bags. It took more time than it would if he had ever taken those lectures about tidiness to heart, though, which explained why he was found by Prussia.

 

“Italy!”

 

He turned and faced the albino with a poisonous glare on his face. “And what do  _ you  _ want, Superfluous Potato Bastard?” It felt wrong, coming from his mouth. None of this felt right. It wasn’t Prussia he was angry at, anyway. It was his brother.

 

Prussia took a step backwards, and took a closer look at the Italy brother in front of him. Golden eyes snapped up to meet his in a cold glare. Definitely the younger brother, then. This unpleasantness seemed to be taking a good amount of effort, whereas in Romano, it was easier than breathing.

 

What Spain saw in that unawesome whiner, he would never know.

 

Veneziano finished throwing his belongings into the suitcase and struggled to lift it.

 

Germany had always been the one to deal with luggage and other heavy lifting, never him. Since they had started being  _ together _ , he had never had to worry about the physical limits of his strength while packing; he had a big, muscle-bound German to do all the carrying for him. 

 

“He’s gone, Italy. Germany, my baby brother - he’s  _ gone _ . I think-”

 

Veneziano pushed past him, ears sealed and case dragging behind him.  On the bed and scattered around the room were belongings he was willing to sacrifice, if that meant he could  _ get out _ sooner. The next thing Prussia heard was eerily similar to a dead body thumping down the stairs, catching on the lip of each step before thudding onto the next one down. He ran from the doorway, where he stood frozen and watched Veneziano being dragged by the suitcase down the impressive staircase of the German brothers’ home.

 

Uncoordinated as he was, it was no surprise that the Italian tripped over the last few steps and was sent sprawling over the floor. 

 

A hand entered his field of vision. His forehead was throbbing where it had hit the floor. More tears were beginning to well up in his eyes.

 

_ How did Prussia get down so quickly? I didn’t hear him… _

 

He took the hand, and instantly knew whose it was. He looked up into those eyes. Clear blue, unclouded. Focused, no haze of the injury visible. Frozen, he had no choice but to let himself be helped up.

 

“Italy, I know I have been gone for a long time, now. Prussia has explained to me how many centuries have passed. You are angry that I did not return, and hurt that I apparently forgot you - as if I could forget. Please, just listen to me.”

 

Silence.

 

“ _ Please _ , Italy.”

 

“Wh-who  _ are _ you?” he choked out.

  
  


_ Time stands still.  
_ _ Beauty in all she is. _

When he first saw Italy in Venice, her home, the world around him ceased to be; all that mattered, all that he saw, all that  _ existed _ was her. Her white hat emphasising the rich red of her hair, the white dress that was perhaps cut in more of a boyish fashion than it should be, and that stubborn curl that sprang out, determined to defy gravity.

He had never seen anyone or anything so beautiful.

He wanted her to join his empire right away. To be his, his to protect. For no-one to be able to take her away from him, to hurt her or take away that innocence of the world. He looked younger than a human child of only ten summers, and yet he had  _ so much blood _ on his hands, and  _ so many deaths _ of those fighting for him, in his name, on his conscience.

Later on, he watched how she dealt with that man who thought that, just because he was rich, he could have the world on his terms. How short-sighted and  _ small _ humans were. They believed they were immortal, and that worth could be determined by wealth and age. Those who did not know who, or rather,  _ what  _ he was treated him like any wealthy family’s child; patronising, talking down to him, asking where his parents were and generally refusing to acknowledge any possibility that he could be more intelligent than any of them. He was centuries old and, to his kind, their people’s lives began, bloomed and died in a heartbeat; the only time their deaths affecting the Nations being when hundreds, or thousands were dying at once, of the same cause. War, disease, famine, poisoning. Their bodies felt it. Their minds and souls, if a Nation did have an eternal soul, could feel the collective pain of the mothers, brothers, sisters, fathers, grandparents, uncles, cousins, sons, daughters, friends, husbands and wives losing their family and those close to them.

Wildfires, drought, volcanoes; they could become feverish, but would still recover soon enough. Their bodies were tied to the land they represented and, to a slightly lesser extent, their people.

How he wanted to make their peoples one! He would stand in front of countless armies, alone if he had to, to keep her close and safe.

And then, she became Austria’s. He learnt that they would be sharing a house, a living space. Her glowing white clothes were replaced with a green maid’s dress and apron, her unruly hair held back by a simple headscarf.

Of course, he only learnt all of this  _ after _ he all but ran into her while she was sweeping up in one of Austria's rooms.  His attention had been drawn by the faint sounds of a girl humming, and there in the doorway was  _ her _ . He whirled back quickly and hid behind the doorframe, then peeked in through the tiniest gap that had opened between it and the door. He could hear his heart thundering in his ears and the small boy hungrily drank in every detail of his new housemate. She began to tremble in fear and cried out. He ran.

Austria called him to the piano room later that day. The blond stood just outside of the room, near the door, until the other Nation had finished playing his current piece. It seemed that playing his piano, or another less favoured instrument, was all that the aristocrat did in his spare time.

Austria invited him in, the final chords of the piece still echoing through the room, permeating the airspace and hanging heavily, just out of hearing, in the ears.  Holy Rome shuffled in; despite the invitation, he always felt like he was intruding in Austria’s personal sanctuary.

 

“We have a new member of the household,” Austria did not waste any excess words,  in social niceties, but just dived straight into why he had called the boy into his music room. “I have control of Venetian territories, so she now lives and works here. I must ask of you that you cease to demand that she joins your empire. It is imperative that our strength appears united.”

 

.::..::..::..::.

 

He had never intended to keep chasing her, now that she lived in the same space as he did. He could observe her now, and talk to her without having to watch international boundaries, or having to worry about the consequences. There was something about that girl that fascinated him; she was in his thoughts morning, noon and night. 

 

There was only one problem.

 

He could not be in the same room as the  young Nation without his face getting warm enough to fry an egg on.

 

The slightest thing Italy did was enough to provoke his crippling shyness. No matter what she did, his face would turn bright, embarrassing scarlet.

 

He failed to see what Hungary found so amusing about it.

 

Holy Rome was not a particularly  _ slow _ nation, and his studies under Austria had aided his analytical thinking. Think of this as another hypothetical battle. The battle for Italy’s...

 

Italy’s what?

 

Oh, well. He’d determine exactly  _ what  _  after he had manned up and actually  _ talked _ to her.

 

That evening. Definitely. No question about it.

 

.::..::..::..::.

 

They ate dinner all together at one table. Austria sat at one end, Hungary another.

 

He and Italy were sitting opposite each other.

 

The table was all that was between them. A few planks of varnished and heavily polished wood. Nothing.

 

Holy Rome could feel the heat radiating from his face. He kept his eyes trained on the food in front of him, only looking up in hurried snatches of a glance.

 

His eyes touched Italy’s.

 

That’s what it felt like; physical contact between them. He jerked in his seat, blushing harder than he ever had in his life. As soon as was polite, he descended from the table and fled.

 

Hungary smiled. It was cute, watching the little boy dealing with the first pangs of the heart.

 

Veneziano looked in the direction Holy Rome had run off in. Why had he done that?

 

He then did the mental equivalent of a shrug and reached for the dessert the blond boy had left untouched. Maybe he would go after him?

 

But first,  food.

 

.::..::..::..::.

 

The Holy Roman Empire sat on his bed, trying fruitlessly to beat himself to death with his own pillow. 

 

No! How could he let himself be so pathetic? Italy must be laughing at him now!

 

Tomorrow.

 

Over breakfast, he would engage Italy in witty and interesting conversation. He would _ sparkle _ in her eyes!

 

He had the whole night to gather courage.

 

He could do this.

 

He could do this.

 

He could  _ do _ this.

 

_ Knock, knock _ .

 

“Holy Rome? Are you feeling alright?”

 

All his determination - gone.

 

A squeak that would have sounded more in place on Veneziano’s lips burst out of the young empire.

 

“Holy Rome? I - I’m coming in,”

 

The door was heavy, and it had a tendency to stick unless pressure was applied in  _ exactly _ the right way. This gave the boy just enough time to get under his covers and jam the pillow under his (still hatted) head. The many sheets and blankets had been pulled up so that nothing below his eyebrows could be seen.

 

Veneziano launched himself onto the bed, landing just short of the blond’s curled-up legs. 

 

“Why did you leave like that, Holy Rome? Do you know you still have your hat on?”  _ He looks so silly! _

 

“...”

 

Steam began to rise from beneath the covers. Veneziano gently reached forwards and batted the hat off from on top of the now ruffled blond hair. It fell onto the floor, a soft thud from the starched fabric the only sound aside from a small giggle.

 

Two hands slowly grip the top of the covers and drag it down to reveal his eyes. The fingers curled around the edge of the heavy fabric and Holy Rome’s blue eyes met Veneziano ‘s golden ones. The Italian let go of it and smiled.

 

“Hi, Holy Rome!”

 

.::..::..::..::.

 

When he woke up, she was still in his bed. Austria had started calling for her, with growing irritation, not long after she had dragged off the heavy fabric he had been trying to bury himself in. She had dived underneath, amongst the lumps and curves and twists of the sheets and hid.

 

She promptly fell asleep, and nothing Holy Rome could do would wake her up. He resigned himself to an awkward night, barring getting up and moving to another room.

 

_ I will be brave, I will not let anything take away  
_ _ What’s standing in front of me. _

 

War, like an unattended flame, devoured the continent. Few countries were left untouched.

 

The Holy Roman Empire perished.

 

The German states bound themselves together and Germany was born.

 

_ Every breath, every hour has come to this.  
_ _ One step closer.  
_ _ I have died every day waiting for you,  
_ _ Darling, don’t be afraid,  
_ _ I have loved you for a thousand years.  
_ __ I’ll love you for a thousand more.

 

He dragged it all up, with that one memory sparking a full chain reaction. It was not easy. It was not quick. It was painful at times; those memories of when he had been  _ him _ were buried, and deeply. Sometimes he lost track of which day, week, month, year, or even  _ century  _ it was.

Prussia, Teutonic Knights, East – his brother’s name depending on his state of mind – was taking care of his country while he was sorting through these memories, or this future knowledge; whichever of the two it was.

Who was he?

Holy Roman Empire, physically a young boy, a being who was almost painfully shy around new people and a growing power?

Or was he Germany, a serious man with both a proud and not-so proud military history, one of the most reliable Nations of the twenty-first century?

In all his attempts to fit in this whole new person to his inner world, there was always one constant that threaded through his thoughts.

Italy. Veneziano.  _ Italia. _

_ Watching her, a more innocent kind of stalker.  
_ **In the mornings, waking to find him in his bed.  
** _ Leaving food for her, only for it to be rejected by her sophisticated taste buds.  
_ **Training, and discovering the few ways to motivate him.  
** _ Painting lessons, an excuse to get closer to her.  
_ **Crossing the border and finding a large box of ‘tomatoes’.  
** _ Finding out his true gender while swimming in the river. It made no difference to him.  
_ **Sitting through countless romantic films and comforting a sobbing Veneziano because the ending was** **_just so perfect_ ** **.**

Their first kiss.  _ Innocent _ ,  _ the action of two young Nations desperately wanting to stay together. _ **Powerful, but simple; everything he had heard, but simultaneously nothing like it.** _ An end. _ **A beginning.** _ Salt from tears spilt onto their lips. _ **Tomato from his pasta sauce, sharp and tangy.** _ Waving goodbye with a smile, never knowing it was the last time he would see him. _ **Running from his brother, accusations of stealing his fratellino’s ‘innocence’ ringing in his ears.**

 

He struggled for months with his identity. He had to sort all of the memories into place, then come to terms with his new place in the world. He had been thought, before the accident, to be younger than America. It was one of the things the immature nation tried to hold over his head; Germany had been founded after he had gained his independence. America stopped, though, after Germany began to counter with questions about reduction of usage and conservation of food, resources and energy.

 

To be receiving memories from about the year 800 and onwards was painful at best, utterly incapacitating at worst. An entire millennium of thoughts, friends, allies, enemies, images, sounds, lessons learnt, lessons given, lessons completely ignored. It stunned him, from time to time, when another whirlwind of  _ sight-sound-smell-light-shadow-colour-wind-stillness-motion _ hit. The ones from wars were the worst, peacetime the best. 

 

Whenever he received a memory of war, so different then to what it had become in this age of battles of technology, he often keeled over, sometimes clutching suddenly remembered wounds. Had he been a human, he would have died  _ so many times _ . He would be overwhelmed by the images of men standing, shooting - first bows, then slow, inefficient muskets - swinging swords and axes, holding pikes, galloping down on horseback. The smell of blood and sweat and dust and excess metal polish all mixing in together to produce one nauseating stench. The screams of the horses, so unsettlingly human in their agonies as they were ruthlessly cut down on and by both sides. Men so driven by bloodthirst that they would attack anything that moved - man, woman, child, animal - men running from the pain, mental and physical.

 

Men who were executed, without exception or mercy. Cowards, deserters.

 

Men carrying out atrocities on those who would, in the future, be called civilians. Families fleeing oncoming armies, families stubbornly staying in their homes; after all, no matter what they chose, death would not be far away. Stealing, looting, destroying anything that could possibly help the enemy.

 

And then there were the peacetime memories. Helping with the harvest in small villages, pretending to be just another child. Learning diplomacy, arguing and debating with his rulers. Socialising with his higher ranks, parties and balls and dinners. Learning from his best philosophers and scientists. Studying hard under Austria’s watchful eye. Running away from his capital for a few weeks, until he was found by whoever had had the bad luck to be rounded up by his boss at the time.

 

Watching Italy Veneziano in ‘her’ city, time and time again. He had thought that ‘she’ had not noticed him, at the time.

 

_ And all along, I believed I would find you!  
_ _ Time has brought your heart to me, I have loved you  
_ _ For a thousand years, I’ll love you for a thousand  
_ __ More…

 

It hadn’t been easy, adjusting to the fact that Holy Rome was back. Veneziano had done his best to help Germany integrate everything back into his memories. So far, the final blow was mystery to them both.

 

The Italian hoped that it would stay that way. Forgiving as he was, he knew it would change how he saw whichever country was responsible. That, and he didn’t want to know what could be so traumatic as to make him completely forget everything that had happened to him.

 

There were arguments, of course; as the centuries had passed, Veneziano had built Holy Rome up into more than he had been, to more than  _ anyone  _ could be. 

 

Germany was still trying to balance out the new surge of memories, and sudden change in personality that they brought with them. Everyone he dealt with had got used to pausing whenever that blank look came down over the blond’s face. If it lasted longer than two minutes, they called Prussia or Veneziano - whoever was closer. He disliked having to be fussed over like this. It was unprofessional and insulting.

 

The whole world was relieved when it settled down and he finally seemed to get everything balanced out.

 

_ One step closer. _

 

The two of them were in Switzerland, right on the Italian border. They had booked a room at a chalet in a fairly exclusive resort for the two weeks either side of the new year, and they were enjoying the peace and stillness. Veneziano’s cheeks were still flushed pink from the cold of the day’s skiing as he expertly uncorked the bottle of prosecco that they had had sent up to their room. 

 

Still in their salopettes with clumps of snow clinging to the fabric, they stretched out on the balcony and watched the sun’s rays turn the mountain’s peaks pink. The bubbles tingled pleasantly on Germany’s tongue and, despite how awkward he was on the slopes, he was glad that Veneziano had talked him into this.

 

“Ve, Germany? Don’t you think it’s like the sun giving the mountains a goodnight kiss?”

 

“W-What?” He was abruptly jerked out of his thoughts.

 

Veneziano pointed out across the valley that the village was nestled in, towards where the sun was giving out its last few rays. “It’s like the sun’s kissing them goodnight~!”

 

That same laugh, that innocent little giggle that made his golden eyes crease at the corners… Was it any wonder that he had fallen for the Italian, and fallen hard? He had always been there whenever he could, ready to hold him steady and let Germany pick himself up. 

 

It had been over a year since the last burst of memory had come over him, and he knew that it was the last. He remembered everything.

 

He remembered the day that Holy Rome had died. The pain, the confusion, the burning at the back of his throat as screams tore through his body.

 

He remembered the twist of guilt, deep in his stomach. The regret that he would have to break his promise. The knowledge that he was abandoning the boy he had promised to return to.

 

He would never tell Veneziano how it happened, or who had ended him.

 

A warm hand pressed into his own and Germany looked around, meeting those soft golden eyes. He softened and leaned over, closing the gap between the two of them to brush a light kiss onto his lover’s cheek.

 

Not all promises are left broken.

 

_ I have died every day waiting for you,  
_ _ Darling, don’t be afraid,  
_ _ I have loved you for a thousand years.  
_ __ I’ll love you for a thousand more.

_ One step closer. _ ****

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always seen ‘A Thousand Years’ as the perfect GerIta song. I was clearing out my files and found this - abandoned in 2014. I’ve not changed what I wrote then, only added a few sentences to tie the ending up. It would be a shame to get rid of all of this. (19 pages, over 9,000 words)
> 
> “The spheres spin” is a reference to the belief that the universe was arranged in a series of nine crystal spheres with heaven on the outside. Earth was at the centre and hell was below it. A lovely thing from this is the ‘music of the spheres’, a kind of muse that was thought to inspire writers, artists, musicians the like. Who says that fanfiction can’t be educational, huh?


End file.
